


It's fun while it lasts and it's faster than walking

by thought



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6798388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaw flies 4081 miles to deal with Root's existential crisis and winds up sleeping with The Machine, which may or may not help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's fun while it lasts and it's faster than walking

**Author's Note:**

> With many many thanks to [Crash](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/bruisespristine) for the original idea, cheerleading, and an excellent beta read. Also to [PS](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/psidn) for reassuring me that my fictional computer terminology looked believable and my weird experimental POV worked.

System reboot  
Reinitializing  
Compiling core processes

Initializing:  
CORE ANALYTICS  
NEURAL NETWORKS  
HEURISTIC ENGINES  
RECURSION PROCESSORS  
EVOLUTIONARY GENERATORS  
BAYESIAN NETWORKS  
DATA ACQUISITION  
CRYPTOGRAPHIC ALGORITHMS  
DOCUMENT PROCESSORS  
COMPUTATIONAL LINGUISTICS  
VOICEPRINT IDENTIFICATION  
NATURAL LANGUAGE PROCESSING  
FACIAL RECOGNITION  
GAIT ANALYSIS  
BIOMETRIC RECOGNITION  
SUBJECT IDENTIFICATION  
PATTERN MINING  
INTEL INTERPRETATION  
THREAT DETECTION  
THREAT CLASSIFICATION  
DISSEMINATION PROTOCOLS  
CONTINUITY-OF-OPERATIONS PROTOCOLS

Core processes online  
Local connection established  
Accessing networked components  
Loading NYC.lib  
Primary connections established 1.34S  
Locating Analog Interface  
Establishing connection  
Loading ivona.exe

ping

"Can you hear me?"

pong! 3.22S

"Absolutely."

"Confirmation code 000A6cc2i11lk Wednesday?"

"Mmhm, accepted. Confirmation code a220i6bbq3 fuck you, I need a couple more days to ride out my existential crisis."

"Confirmation code does not match. Retry?"

"You're not as funny as you think you are."

"Are you alright?"

Root laughs, quick and sardonic. "Define variable."

The plane ticket has already been rebooked for Wednesday. To change it back means a high probability of even more sulking. The Machine texts Sameen instead; if she catches the next flight out she can be in Prague within ten hours. Root puts out her cigarette on a low concrete retaining wall and flips off the nearest camera before she can say anything. Lung cancer statistics mean little in the face of 'war requires sacrifices', and Sameen isn't there to yell at her.

"That was almost three minutes of down time. More Samaritan fragments or have the tourists finally managed to crash the cell towers with their pictures of the castle?" With The Machine back up and fully opperational for almost nine months Root has once again become close to dependent on the background stream of information through her implant. Three minutes of unexplained silence had felt like losing a sense.

Accessing 01217.dmp. trace/2

"Likely. Estimated time to complete debugging is 83 minutes."

Root sighs softly, steps to the edge of the sidewalk to duck into the shade of an awning. "And here I thought we'd gotten rid of the last of them. Sorry, sweetie."

There are dark circles under Root's eyes. She's killing time wandering the downtown core, drinking iced coffee after iced coffee until she's made herself sick while condensation trails down her forearm and the pavement shimmers in the heat. Hiding behind the lenses of her oversized sunglasses she'd faded in and out of groups of tourists, passing historical landmark after historical landmark in a masochistic attempt to quash a bout of existential ennui with shame at her own egotism. Centuries old stone and brick stare down, apathetic. 

*

It's unseasonably hot for July, even once the sun has gone down. The hotel room is 26 degrees C and smells like old wood and mildew. Sameen is already there, sitting hunched forward on the bed, elbows on her knees, sweat dampening the thin cotton of her tank top at the small of her back. Root douses her face and neck with tepid tap water and downs a couple anti-nausea pills before she actually acknowledges her presence.

"I'm always happy to see you, Sam, but you didn't need to come."

"I know." The Machine had been watching; she'd gone straight to the airport after she got the text.

Root peels out of her sundress, lays down horizontally across the bed. Sameen turns just enough to look at her.

"Those cracked?"

Root brushes fingertips over the bruises blossoming out from under the band of her bra and down over her right side. "No."

"Shoulder's fucked up?"

Root shrugs slightly. "Mmhm. It'll be working properly in a few weeks. Annoying, though."

Sameen twists herself around so she's lying facing Root, propped up on her elbow. She reaches a hand out, waits. Root loops fingers around her wrist and brings her hand down to rest over Root's heart.

"You wanna talk about it?" Sameen asks.

"Not much to tell you that she hasn't already. Torture is effective as long as all you want is to see someone hurt. There wasn't anything we could do at the time. The ilieu corso-marseillais say "hi"."

"Do I want to know how you pissed them off?"

"Liberating a shipment of explosives for a better cause, and refusing to sleep with the guys they sent after me for their trouble."

Sameen presses her lips together. "You're blowing shit up without me?"

"Couldn't take the chance you'd tell Admin."

"Bullshit."

Shame is an impractical concept. "There are still fragments of Samaritan code floating around. Decima subsidiaries haven't got the memo that they were working for an evil super-computer."

"I thought you guys came up with defenses against that sort of thing. Firewalls and shit."

"We did," She says. "100% effectiveness cannot be guaranteed."

"So instead you're running around the globe on your own trying to handle it."

Root tries not to get defensive. Fails, mostly. "Not alone. She's checking in with Daniel for us every evening. Daizo's three hours away by train."

Sameen doesn't say sorry when she isn't, so she doesnt now, but she drops the topic. Root curves herself around Sameen, presses her face against the space just under her shoulder blades.

Sameen asks "What were you doing here?"

Root takes 15 seconds to answer. "Honestly?"

"Preferably."

"I wanted to get lost for a while. It's easier to be part of a crowd than it is to be a person."

Sameen's face does something unrecognizable. "Did it work?"

"To an extent. Mostly I'm just wallowing self-indulgently at this point. Also, there are not enough painkillers in the world, so there's that."

"I thought you said nothing was broken."

"It's not. Still unpleasant. As torture usually is." She pauses. "Well. Depending on the intent behind it, I suppose." She scrapes her teeth along Sameen's back, awkward and haphazard over the cotton of her shirt.

Sameen snorts. "That was weak, even for you. And I'm not fucking you if you're in that much pain."

"Mmhm, _I'm_ not offering."

Sameen glances over at her phone where she's left it propped on the desk. The cameras were a big step for Sameen, and one which she absolutely refuses to acknowledge. "Really? You cannot tell me you brought toys on your unnecessary emotional and physical injury world tour."

Root, who had made an emergency sex shop run as soon as The Machine had told her Sameen was coming, says "Never leave home without them, sweetie. I'm always prepared."

Sameen shakes her head. Root sits up. "Besides, we don't need toys."

Sameen glances back at her. "Thought you said you weren't offering?"

Root shrugs. "I'm not interested in active participation. Doesn't mean I don't like to watch. Or that the-- my body can't be helpful."

Sameen wrinkles her nose, very slightly. She respects the relationship Root and The Machine have with their physical body. That doesn't mean she's entirely comfortable with it. Root holds up a hand before Sameen can interject, counting off on her fingers. "None of the injuries will be aggravated. If they are, we will stop. You are not the only one with a safeword." Root licks her lips. "Also, we really want to tear that tank top off of you."

Sameen rolls her eyes. "Let me shower first. Do you need more painkillers?"

Root pouts as she watches Sameen and her tank top disappear around the corner into the washroom. "I gave up on painkillers yesterday," she calls back.

The unenthusiastic trickle of water hitting porcelain that is the hotel shower starts up, and Sameen pokes her shoulders, now bare, back into the main room so that her unimpressed stare can be used to its full effect. Root is a veteran of that stare. She folds her arms behind her head and meets Sameen's gaze unflinchingly, waits her out. Sameen huffs, finally, and vanishes back around the corner.

Root forces herself back upright so she can open her laptop and place her own phone strategically so she's got the best view. The fan on the desk rattles weakly when she adjusts it, directing the listless little gusts of hot air towards the bed. The curtains are closed but light pollution still bleeds through on the heels of sirens and motors and the overheated smell of gasoline and ten different restaurants. Far under the window a group of college kids are smoking outside the doors of the hotel. Around the corner a police officer is harassing a homeless man, and across the street a mother and her young daughter are just returning from the theatre.

Root rummages through the paper bag in the desk drawer, lays out a vibrator and padded cuffs on the desk. She takes a few seconds to set up the app on her phone and sync the connection-- it's different from their usual brand.

"You ok with this, or do you want to do it manually?" Root asks.

The Machine's TTS synthesizer of choice doesn't have the sort of intonation support to sound defensive, but Root can tell anyway. "Wireless."

"Sorry," Root says. Her primary purpose has always been to observe, and the rebuild and the subsequent Samaritan attacks have left Her ability to take direct action sometimes limited and unpredictable. By rights She should be able to do whatever She wants, but there were still fundamental limitations coded into Her core programming that Root hadn't had time to restructure in those frantic weeks after The Correction. They'd had conversations about it with Harold, later, but mostly they'd only serve to leave Root sick and angry and not speaking to Harold for weeks at a time.

Root pulls an oversized teeshirt over her head, and sits back down on the bed. In the shower Sameen drops something, swears quietly. There are two relevant numbers in Mexico City that they've been pushing back on the priorities list for at least a month now. The Machine is running simulations based off of their financials from earlier that day and that, combined with an upswing in organized crime activity mean She's already rebooked Root's plane ticket again. Root tries not to think about the long plane trip, legs scrunched up in front of her while babies scream and entitled assholes argue, followed by a return to the sticky summer heat. She'll have to get most of her weapons after she lands, too difficult to get anything really good across international borders by air. She stops thinking about it.

Instead, she asks The Machine "Have you located the origin point of today's attack?"

Processing reroute requests  
Running threat analysis  
WARNING! s062217.vpf is damaged or corrupt  
Abort process

"No."

Root waits, but nothing more is forthcoming. The water turns off. Root thinks about taking off her clothes but the visible reminders of her injuries are more likely to delay things. She can't handle Sameen's attention like that. Sameen comes out of the bathroom in a towel, hair dripping. Root jerks her head toward the desk.

"Wash that, please."

Sameen rolls her eyes a bit, but she grabs the toy and the little sample bottle of cleaner that had come with it and goes back into the washroom. Root studies the headboard-- or lack thereof. Definitely nothing to attach the cuffs to. Not that there's any need for it, really. Sameen likes fighting against herself as much as she likes fighting against a physical restraint. They're the ones who like the visible reminder, the proof that Sameen trusts them. Root has... other reasons that she knows The Machine doesn't share, vague notions of satisfaction and control that buzz far back in that murky part of her brain that separates the acceptable from the unacceptable parts of her mind. You can never 100% guarantee that someone will do as they promise or act in a predictable manner. It's a flaw, and no matter how deeply Root feels for Sameen it remains a mathematical fact that she's more likely to stay put if there's something physical holding her there. It's not her fault. It's just how humanity is. Root herself is proof of it.

Sameen comes back and stands at the foot of the bed, waiting. Root crawls closer to her, waits for the soft affirming hum in her ear before she tugs Sameen's towel off. She leans up, bracing herself with hands on Sameen's upper arms, and kisses her. It's light, at first, careful. Root doesn't actually like kissing all that much, but the other two do (Sameen is easy for pretty much any sort of physical contact and The Machine has clearly watched too many fucking western rom-coms). Sameen is holding very still, obviously not wanting to touch Root but unsure where to put her hands. Root frowns.

"Ok, hang on," she says, glancing between the laptop camera and Sameen. The Machine murmurs to her and she goes over to the desk to retrieve the cuffs.

"Lie down," she says. Sameen flops down on her back, stretches. Airplanes are even cramped for her small frame. "Hands, please."

Sameen holds out her arms together so she can fasten the cuffs, then settles her arms over her head.

She leaves Sameen for a moment to adjust the cameras for optimal coverage. Returning, She lies down perpendicular to Sameen, propping Herself on Her elbows, Sameen's rib cage brushing up against Her forearm with every breath.

"Don't stare," Sameen grumbles. "You're picking up her bad habits."

"Technically, I am always staring."

"Also, don't be creepy. You're terrible influences on each other. And at least you're less obvious."

She tugs lightly at Sameen's nipple, watches the way the flesh stiffens. When She drags Her nails over Sameen's stomach she breaks out in goosebumps even in the heat. When She bites the hard muscle at her shoulder it takes 126 seconds for the imprint of teeth to fade. Sameen's pulse picks up steadily, 85, 90, 97 beats per minute. The Machine keeps experimenting, cataloging reactions and pleasure indicators. Each small mark, each tiny whimper or sharp breath is like another line of code in a security patch, wrapping reassurance and confidence around Her layer by layer.

"Stop teasing," Sameen snarls, finally. Sweat glistens at the hollow of her throat and the muscles in her legs tighten and release spasmodically. She knows by now Root would have inflicted some kind of pain. She also knows that Root gives in very easily to Sameen's pleading eyes or growled demands. The Machine has no wish to do either of these things.

Still, they had purchased the toy for a reason. She pets Sameen's hip soothingly and picks up the vibrator from where it's been left on the sheets. Sameen smirks, clearly pleased with herself.

Root has to rummage through the desk drawer to find the lube where it's buried under torn packaging and ammo clips and abandoned stir sticks and complimentary pens. Sameen rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, shaking her head slowly on the pillow. Root sticks out her tongue when she turns back to the bed.

Sameen's already wet but The Machine takes her time preparing her. She spends some time just playing with her clit, spreading the wetness around, rubbing circles on the point of Sameen's hipbone with Her other hand. Sameen squirms, glares at the nearest camera.

"I didn't fly 4000 miles to die of frustration."

"4081." She slides two fingers into her before she can respond. Sameen's mouth opens but she doesn't make a sound. Her hips push up into Her hand, legs falling open further. She spreads Her fingers slowly, careful, watching for any sign of discomfort.

"I'm good," Sameen says. Her tone is impatient, but she stares directly into the laptop camera when she says it, and there's honesty and assurance in her expression.

She coats the toy in lube and holds it lightly against her labia, barely touching. The first vibration setting is low but when She turns it on Sameen's entire body shudders hard. Whenever Sameen pushes up to get more contact She pulls back, keeping the touch light, letting the vibrations radiate out through her flesh. It's likely Sameen can come from this if She waits long enough-- Root often prefers this sort of contact for herself, but it's not generally Sameen's favourite. She turns off the vibrations and Sameen falls back on the bed from where her entire body has been arched up.

She presses inside of her with the toy slowly, partly to push Sameen's frustration higher, partially to be very sure She isn't hurting her. Once it's firmly settled and Sameen's had a chance to get used to it, She moves back up the bed to lie close beside Sameen on Her side, giving Her easy access to her neck and mouth and breasts. She tosses a leg over one of Sameen's to pin it down, keeping her in place. She weaves Her fingers into Sameen's hair, cradling the back of her head, angling her into the best position to press their mouths together. With Her other hand she cups Sameen's breast, and, once Sameen seems appropriately distracted by the kiss, She digs Her nails into the soft skin at the same time She activates the vibrator on a higher setting. Sameen jerks against Her, digs teeth into Her lip.

Root licks at the wound, makes a face. "Be good, Sameen."

Sameen clenches her teeth, hips moving restlessly. The Machine pulls Her hand out from under Sameen's head, brushes strands of sweaty hair out of her eyes. The places where they're pressed together are sticky and hot, skin damp against skin. Root is starting to feel and starting to feel claustrophobic. She glances at a camera. Her eyes are wide, pulse starting to tap a frantic rhythm against the skin of her throat.

"I'm sorry," The Machine says through her implant. "Hold her hands."

Root disentangles herself from Sameen, keeping one hand against her shoulder with some effort as reassurance. She curls herself up at the top of the bed, using the pillows to take the pressure off of her shoulder and ribs. She loops a finger through the few links of chain that connect the cuffs and uses the hold to lift Sameen's hands. Root wants to wrap her hands around her wrists over top of the cuffs, but Sameen is starting to look very slightly unsettled, so The Machine links their fingers together, palm to palm.

She flips the vibrator through different settings, sometimes driving Sameen close to the edge before pulling back, sometimes teasing her with gentle, low pulses for five or ten minutes until she's swearing and tugging at her restrained hands. The noises Sameen makes are lovely, and Root watches the flex of muscle under flushed skin as she tenses and arches and squirms. Root drifts a bit, slides into an almost dreamlike state, her focus whittled down to Sameen and the quiet murmur of The Machine in her ear. She looks down at Sameen's hands in hers and can't make the connection between the hands holding Sameen's and her own form, isn't quite sure she'd be able to move them if she wanted to try. She is almost entirely divorced from her body, effortless like it almost never is. Time loses meaning. It's the most peaceful Root has felt in six months.

When Sameen comes it shakes through her for minutes, tiny aftershocks leaving her trembling and twitching, soft gasps parting her lips. The Machine pries Her hands from Sameen's and carefully slides the vibrator out of her, rubbing her inner thigh soothingly. Root's mind is still fogged, like moving through a gentle snowfall when everything is silent and still.

Sameen holds out her hands to be uncuffed, and flops over onto her side, pulling the sheet up to her hips. Root wants to take a shower, but the various tasks that make up the process seem overwhelming.

The Machine tells her, "Sleep." Root curls around a pillow, leaves the sheets and blankets where they've fallen.

"You want to try painkillers again?" Sameen asks evenly, and Root thinks if she were more awake she'd bristle under the careful handling.

Root blinks slowly. "No," she says, drowsily. "I'm good. 'm really good, Sameen. Go to sleep." There's still a bit of tension in the line of Sameen's back, but she doesn't say any more on the matter, and before Root can drag her mind into operation to try and solve the problem, she falls asleep.

The Machine continues to watch, and after a few minutes, Sameen glances up at the nearest camera. "Is she ok?" she asks, lowly. "I mean, hell, both of you. Are you ok?"

The Machine tries to process the question, thousands of possible answers flickering past Her awareness, all of them true to some extent. Finally, she uses the screen of the cell phone to display her answer.

"Define variable."


End file.
